


Sous Le Ciel De Paris

by LWTIS



Category: South Park
Genre: Alternate Universe - Artists, Artistic Crises, M/M, Meet-Cute, Paris (City), Schmoop, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Writers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-06
Updated: 2018-12-01
Packaged: 2019-08-19 13:08:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 13,877
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16535171
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LWTIS/pseuds/LWTIS
Summary: For the dozenth time, Kyle fervently wishes he could sue the collective popular culture of the past century for perpetuating and popularising misconceptions and vicious lies about Paris.-A writer's and an artist's struggles with inspiration (and lack thereof), separately and together. AKA - Paris is nothing like the movies made it out to be.





	1. The Writer - La Vie En Rose

His neighbours are having sex again.

The creak of the bed is mercilessly loud. The noises are punctuated with barely muffled groans and obnoxious moans of a name that sounds both pretentious and _stripperific_. Gritting his teeth, Kyle punches his pillow before dragging it over his face in an attempt to drown the sounds out - or cut off his air supply long enough to induce blissful coma. He will gladly take either at this point.  
On his bedside table, bright red letters cheerfully proclaim the hour just shy of 2 am. Under his window, some impatient fucker leans on his horn again, shrill curses incomprehensible. For the dozenth time, Kyle fervently wishes he could sue the collective popular culture of the past century for perpetuating and popularising misconceptions and vicious _lies_ about Paris.

\---

Here’s the thing about wanting to be a writer -    
He is aware that expressing this desire makes him sound like a pretentious fuckwit, echoing the words of indolent hipsters and every overconfident fuckboy who is convinced they have something monumentally important to say. He is conscious of the fact that to many people, it comes across as an admittance of not wanting a _real_ job, with _real_ responsibilities. After all, everyone can _write_. Anyone is capable of expressing their thoughts within the confines of 2000 words or less.

But the crux of the matter is - writing is something Kyle is undeniably _great_ at.

The newspaper club had always been a fun highlight of his weeks  - however, it was the reporting that had given him the first real taste. The rush, the accomplishment, the _fulfilment_. Soaking in reality and then taking the reigns - sculpting it into something sharp and meaningful. _Evocative_.  

Here’s the thing about being a writer -    
If Kyle is entirely honest with himself, there’s isn’t exactly an alternative. Whether he chooses to put the words to paper (or screen), whether he succumbs to the urge to research and expand a niggling idea, whether he decides to go to bed on time or stay up until the crack of dawn perfecting a story -  
The urge, the drive, the compulsion is always there. Like an itch under his skin,  just out of reach.

\---

Paris seems like the obvious choice.

As Kyle had approached the cusp of adulthood, he knew he had to move. South Park had always felt much too small for him. As his mind finally caught up with the frantic growth spurts of puberty, the town had selfishly shrunk around him. Previous comfort of familiarity and routine had steadily morphed into irritation, only fuelling his thirst for a change in scenery. There was nothing left for him here - and Denver wasn’t going to cut it. He didn’t want any more mountains, any more small town politics - any more muscle-bound boys with bad bleach jobs, narrow world-views and infuriating hyperfixations with protein shakes.   
He didn't have to go overseas, of course. But if he was going to uproot himself and take the leap into oblivion, he might as well make it a spectacularly big one. His loved ones’ reactions were wary - concerned, almost - but far from surprised. Their resignation and acceptance trickled in at different paces.

“You'd hate New York anyways.” Stan notes one blustery afternoon, fingers sticky with ketchup. There’s a sad sort of smile playing around his lips. “They’d wind you up with their...what did Bebe call it again?”

“‘Perceived sense of superiority?’”

“That’s the one.” he nods, reaching over to steal a napkin. “Like the dickheads from North Park. Only a thousand times worse.”

Kyle can only shudder at the notion, eyes wide with horror. He resists the urge to smack his best friend’s wrist when he steals one of his fries. “Nothing is worse than North Park.”

“Too true.” Stan concedes easily. He manages to claim another fry before Kyle tugs his whole tray out of reach. “Is your Mom still convinced the food in Paris is going to kill you?”

“She’s only implying it this time.” comes the grumbled reply. “In heavy detail. Usually when my mouth is full of food.”

Stan laughs, all-too-familiar with the image of Sheila on a rampage. His eyes crinkle with mirth before his smile dips into something more sombre.

“I’m sure it will be worth it.” he says. Despite the light tone and cheery words, the redhead can hear every single implication that’s left unsaid. There’s a sad slope to Stan’s shoulders, a little downturn of his lips that speaks of hesitation at the prospect of a future without his best friend living next door. Kyle’s eyes drag to the scar above his eyebrow - a souvenir of the lowest point in their teenage years - and like clockwork, fear coils in his gut. Anxiety and guilt make for a potent, heavy cocktail, prompting him to suddenly regret his choice of lunch - as well as every decision leading up to this point in time -  

Right on cue, Stan’s trainers nudge against his foot.

“Stop it.” he chides. “You’ve been busting your ass for years to get to do this. Don’t you start feeling guilty now.”

Kyle manages a smile in response, scuffing the toes of his boot against Stan’s ankle. When the taller boy reaches over to swipe at the cookies Kyle got for dessert, he makes no move to stop him.  

“Besides, it’s not like you’re marching off to war.” Stan adds once his mouth is full. “It’s just a year for now. I know your Mom will have your ass back here in time for Hanukkah, anyways.”

“Oh yeah. She practically made me sign a contract. In blood.”

A bunch of high-schoolers bustle into the diner, voices boisterous and obnoxiously loud. Next to his elbow, his screen lights up with an incoming email about his references and upcoming flight details. The light of the setting sun draws Stan’s profile into soft focus, all familiar angles and soft golden light.

“It’ll be fine.” he says, words muffled by stolen chocolate chip. “I’m sure it will be everything you wanted, and then some.”

\---

Stan’s words echo in his mind when he swipes his metro card across the console the next morning - only to have a stranger’s knees jam against the back of his legs, sending both of them hurtling through the barrier. The ground is unforgivingly cold and bitterly disgusting against his skin.

\---

Here’s the thing about inspiration.  
It’s a fucking bitch.

\---

Like all writers, Kyle has his indulgences and preferences.

The topics that never cease to fascinate and excite him are history - and all its great concepts that kept the gears oiled and events rolling. The sweeping stories that left their permanent mark on the world, be it scorching or flourishing. He had dipped his toes into various different genres over the years, experimenting and sampling. Yet, inevitably, all roads lead back to either fantasy or historical fiction. Sweeping anecdotes regarding worlds in upheaval, recounting the desperate struggle between right and wrong. The clash between domineering conquests and struggle for freedom, morality blurring in the heat of the battlefield.  
Of course, it’s not all battles and intrigue, political or otherwise.

 _“I wouldn’t have expected you to have a knack for period romances,_ _Kyle._ "Wendy had said to him after circumstances dropped one of his short stories into her lap. Although her words had made him bristle, the compliment was sincere, words laced with genuine surprise.  

(Stan, the traitor, had just stood off to the side, not even bothering to hide his grin at the whole display.)

Because as much as he’d like to deny it at times, and as much of an inconvenience it is when paired with such a meticulous mindset, Kyle has always been a romantic at heart. And that, too, might have played some part in his final decision.  
After all, history seeps deep in London, Prague, Berlin. But few cities are more romantic than Paris.   

-

Here’s the thing about inspiration.

It is both something obvious and subtle, simultaneously tangible and abstract. In all technicalities, Kyle knows what he needs to gather for his next story. The idea sits firmly in his mind, skeleton of an outline already pencilled into his notebook. He knows what he needs to immerse himself in - buildings the characters would have walked past on a daily basis (sprawling and ancient), art they would have admired (with its smell of fresh paint still clinging to the canvas), stories from the time period (written on faded texts).

And yet.

When he stands in front of a seven-hundred-year-old building, an architectural wonder that enchanted thousands back in the day - all he sees are crumbling bricks and badly concealed graffiti. In the courtyard, several names are crudely carved into the delicate marble with a pocketknife. All around, the concrete is littered with still-smoking cigarette butts. As Kyle takes a step to the side, a gaggle of tourists shove in front of him, obscuring his view in a flurry of oversized hats and flash photography.

When he casts his eye over paintings he’s only ever seen in grainy scans, appropriate appreciation is near impossible with his senses blocked by the sounds and smells of the crushing crowd.   

When the sky crackles above him on a Wednesday morning, wind relentlessly tugging at his coat, he seeks refuge in the nearest coffee shop. A single latte cleans out his food budget for the day. It arrives almost twenty minutes later, overly modest in size and ice-cold. Upon his polite request to have his drink hot, the barista stares at him with the unmasked indignation of a man whose very identity had been insulted.

“This is how it’s meant to be drunk.” he hisses before marching off, leaving Kyle gaping, red faced and stuck with a cold coffee.

The next hours pass in a frustrated blur of staticky thoughts and clumsy fingers. The Parisian crowd steamrolls through the streets outside the window. He catches snippets of conversation, bright bursts of detail - a red cashmere scarf, an admission of a corporate scandal, a teal snakeskin bag that was a mistake from the get-go - but they roll off him, tumbling beyond his grasp. By the time his laptop warns him of low battery, the sun is about to dip below the horizon and he has written exactly fifteen words since his arrival.  

\---

Kyle had always been a firm believer that experience beget a better product.  

Research was the irreplaceable backbone of any writing - but at the end of the day, familiarity with the topic lent that last little spark to the text, really bringing it to life. (Within reason, of course. He wasn’t all that eager to immerse himself in the messy practicalities of sword-fighting and horse riding for the sake of a good fight scene.) The same, naturally, applied to people and relationships as a whole. It was hard to write about sweeping, slow burn courtships (without a fear of it turning cliché or stale) when one was surrounded by men who believed dirty rhymes about his ass was the epitome of romance.   

The first month is filled with nervous trepidation and impatient expectations. There’s a bar suited for every taste, and on most nights, there is a handsome fellow both curious and eager to get better acquainted.    
There’s a certain air of confidence surrounding the boys in Paris. It guides their movements, firm and unmistakable in intention as hands smooth over the small of his back, arms curling around his waist. It lurks in the corner of their smiles and in the hunger of their gaze, and Kyle cannot help but get swept up by it. There’s something thrilling about being reckless in a foreign country, surrounded by a sea of unknown faces that know nothing about him. It’s blissful indulgence in his anonymity, pinned in place by a strong grip and showered in words he doesn’t understand.  
Yet as he sits down to write the next morning, muscles still pleasantly sore and neck littered with bite marks, his trains of thought inevitably stutter into awkward and stilted stops.      
It takes half a bottle of wine and three dozen sloppily exchanged texts with an insomniac Stan to put words to his growing sense of unease and dissatisfaction.  
As much as he’d like to deny it, Kyle has always been a romantic at heart. And romance - beyond fascination and crackling chemistry, romance is about devotion. Passion. _Loyalty_. It’s about remembering details, assigning significance to the mundane and slowly learning to speak each other’s language. It’s about support. Communication - through and without words.  
A hard thing to find in the arms of a stranger who doesn’t stay the night.

\---

“How are you doing, bubbe? Are you eating okay? Did you finish off that chapter yet?”

A sharp creak snaps Kyle into action. He manages to mute his mike the split second before a body slams against the wall behind him, followed by a long, drawn-out moan. He waits until they relocate before cautiously switching his mike back on.  

“All good, Ma. All good.”

\---

On some days, it’s all he can do not to chuck his laptop out of the window and watch all his documents burn in a metaphorical fire.  
Maybe he overestimated himself.  
Maybe it’s all been a fluke. He doesn’t know how he thought he could possibly do this.  
Maybe he’s just a failure in the making.

\---

He first spots him on a particularly dull Thursday afternoon, twenty minutes after they run out of lemon cake.

“Une noisette, s'il vous plaît.”

The voice is soft, a little muffled by his scarf. Despite the impeccable grammar, the flat intonation and roll of his vowels reveals him as an American. It’s an unusual enough of an occurrence to pull Kyle’s attention from his mostly-blank word document. Idly, he watches the other - tall, blonde, questionably dressed - pay for his drink. As he unzips his bag to dig out his wallet, Kyle catches a glimpse of several paint-smeared sketchbooks.  
Huh.      
His gaze follows the stranger to the other side of the till, and then across the cafe as the blonde makes his way to the exit.  
Their eyes meet right before the heavy glass door slips shut behind him.  

\---

American Stranger is already there when Kyle stumbles inside on Friday, valiantly trying to protect his laptop bag from the merciless rain. He has no doubt he resembles a drowned dog, flustered and very much out of shape. Only when he is settled at his customary table, laptop safe and coat draped along the back of his seat, does he notice the familiar blonde head. He is sat by the window, balancing on the edge of the seat with his spine curved in an uncomfortable angle. His eyes are fixed on the sketchbook in his lap, expression pulled into a tight frown.   

Kyle doesn’t quite know why he finds his gaze wandering so often. At first, he blames it on the stranger’s coat - the loudest shade of synthetic orange ever engineered by man, covered in a myriad of odd patches. The third time, he reasons it’s professional curiosity. It’s understandable he feels some form of bond with a fellow struggling artist. It’s _mere professional curiosity_. The fifth time, he has to admit it’s just regular, maddening curiosity. Kyle _desperately_ wants to know what the blonde is drawing.  
Artistically Inclined Stranger doesn’t stay for very long. He gets a text message forty minutes after Kyle’s arrival, prompting him to quickly pack up and make his way towards the door.  
On the way, their eyes meet again.  

\---

 _L’étranger américain_ has bright blue eyes - striking and intriguing. They possess a very intense kind of stare - searching, curious - and it’s a little unnerving how little Kyle minds being subjected to it.

\---

The wind is especially capricious on the Monday Kyle decides to visit Les Invalides.

Swiftly, he manages to sidestep a shrieking pair of toddlers, ruining a couple’s photo in the process. By the time he reaches the steps to the building, he is already exhausted. He takes a moment to catch his breath, eyes fluttering shut for just a second.  

“It’s funny how something like this would never be built these days.”

To his credit, he doesn’t shriek. He merely jumps - gracefully - before whipping his gaze to his left. A familiar pair of eyes meets him, accompanied by a slow, thoughtful smile. It takes Kyle a long moment to remember he’s supposed to respond.

“Oh?”

_Nailed it._

Handsome Stranger’s smile just widens, corners of his eyes crinkling. It’s incredibly distracting.

“According to the exhausted tour guide there, it was built by the King in recognition of the sacrifices of the soldiers who fought in his wars.” he elaborates. The scarf muffling his words is purple today, sporting a tiny ghost pattern. By some witchcraft, he pulls the whole thing off, orange coat included. “Guy spent most of his reign waging wars, so there were enough veterans to fill this massive building.”

“That’s a bold move.” He had been too distracted to pay any mind to the tour guide, or the printouts offered at the entrance. Thoughtfully, he glances over at the building with new-found interest. “I wonder if that was the motivation? To make a military career more attractive to people?”

“Could be.” Gloved fingers pluck at his scarf before he tugs it low enough to reveal a crooked nose and the full force of his smile. “I didn’t expect to run into you here. Small world.”

There’s a tiny gap between his front teeth that Kyle finds extremely distracting. “Indeed.”

Apparently, that’s all Blonde, Ruffled and Terribly Dressed needs as motivation to step closer, hand extended. “I’m Kenny. _Ç'est un plaisir_.”

“Your accent is terrible.” the redhead says, unable to help himself. His fingers tighten around Kenny’s briefly. “...Kyle.”

The blonde doesn’t seem offended. If anything, his amusement grows. “I doubt yours is any better, sweetheart.”

Automatically, he feels himself bristle at the easy affection, Kenny’s accent much too similar to the ones of fuckboys from Colorado. He tugs his hand back with a pointed look. “Hence the reason why you don’t hear me attempting it.”

“You have to make an idiot out of yourself a few times before you learn a language.” the blonde says cheerfully. His hands slide into his pockets easily. “I was heading over to check out the dead body. Wanna join?”

“The _what now?”_  

-

It’s well into the afternoon when they find their way to the exit. He notes with some surprise just how sore and dry his throat is.

“Do you want to grab a coffee?” Kenny suddenly asks, apparently telepathic. His eyes twinkle with the mirth of a private joke. “As a fellow American, I feel like it’s the least I can do for you in this scary foreign land.”  

“How patriotic of you.” Kyle says drily. Despite his words, his fingers are already curling around his metro card. “Do you have a place in mind?”  

-

Somehow, four hours later, he finds himself on the other side of town, in a basement, clutching a pint in one hand and a pool cue in the other.

Cautiously, he casts his gaze over the table. “I feel like I should tell you that I haven’t played pool in years.”

“First time.” Kenny informs him cheerfully. He twirls his cue in a manner that makes the bartender send a dirty look in their direction. As he moves into position, his grin turns smug. “I bet I’ll still kick your ass.”

Kyle’s eyes narrow. Swiftly, he sets his glass down.

“Keep dreaming.”

\---

When he joins the Land of the Conscious around noon the next day, there’s a message on his phone.  

**_// Morning (ﾉ´ヮ´)ﾉ*:･ﾟ✧ Give me a text when you’ve recovered. I want to enjoy that victory lunch you’re buying me ;) //_ **

\---

Here’s the thing about inspiration.  
It’s a fickle bitch, with the worst sense of timing.  
But when graced with its presence - finally - nothing tastes quite as sweet.

\---

There is something in Kenny’s eyes that intrigues him.

It intrigued him the very first time, and continues to intrigue him all the way throughout lunch, where the blonde stuffs his pockets full of the complimentary butter squares and tiny jars of marmalade, right before trying to make a case for why Kyle should order a lobster. It lingers in his mind long after they have said goodbye, warm and so, so curious.  
When Kyle pushes the door of the cafe open less than twelve hours later, he chides himself for the spike of anticipation that runs down his spine. But when his gaze falls to the desk near the window, Kenny is already pulling another chair out.   

“There’s a botanical garden near the Pantheon.” he says later, as Kyle is scooping another pack of sugar into his mug. Long fingers tap against the table, tips of his nails dark with charcoal. “We should have a look. For artistic purposes.”

The coffee is sharp and scalding against his tongue. Kyle swallows. “I don’t really know if I find trees and flowers all that inspiring.”

Kenny tilts his head. Slowly, his expression slips into the smile that - distressingly - Kyle is starting to grow attached to.  

“Neither do I. Let’s go find out.”

\---  

Kenny is an enigma, in every sense of the word.  

His accent and his passport puts him deep into Western America, yet the tales of his teenage years are scattered across all corners of Europe. His wardrobe consists exclusively of bright colours and ridiculous patterns - yet his art is dominated by dark colours and even darker themes. There’s a subtle air of melancholy hanging over his drawings, framed with a cynical edge. And yet, Kenny’s art never leaves Kyle feeling depressed, or despairing.  
Contrary to his ridiculous height and bony legs, there is a certain grace to the blonde. It’s ingrained in the poise of his spine, in the way he moves, his experiences bleeding through every little movement.

There is something about his enthusiasm, his eye for detail. How he finds small, tiny things fascinating, and how no detail seems small enough to be a starting point to create something beautiful.  
Be it his writing or life in general, Kyle’s focus wrapped around the bigger picture - seeing the story as a whole, with all its spreading branches and roots. Kenny - Kenny, on the other hand, is a lover of the small details, the personal anecdotes. In his hands, single objects and single subjects become vessels for stories - rich, colourful and vivid.

There’s the way he persists with his presence, eager but not overbearing. He never seems to run out of invitations - of places, of events, of curiosities. They’re always framed as suggestions, as ‘artistic excursions’. Kyle doesn’t know if this is for Kenny’s benefit - drawing boundaries - or for Kyle himself. Either way, he cannot help but appreciate the thought, taking it as a thoughtful gesture.

Kenny is an enigma.  
But his presence fits around Kyle in the most comfortable, comforting way possible.

\---

The first time Kenny stays the night in his apartment (movie marathon that stubbornly ran later than the last train), his neighbours are all-too eager to keep their loud fornication on schedule.  
The first creaks and moans make Kyle cringe, fingers tightening into fists in his lap. Kenny, on the other hand, frowns. Then, he scoots closer to the wall and lets out the loudest, filthiest, most pornographic moan Kyle has ever heard.

“Oh, fuck, _yes!_ ” he practically shrieks in faux-ecstasy, slamming his fist against the wall in quick succession. “Oh, babe, don’t stop, _fill me up with your hot, dirty -_ “

By the time Kyle’s brain finishes short-circuiting, the neighbours have been mysteriously silenced and Kenny’s expression is one of utter smugness.   

“That’s what I thought.” he sniggers. With a cat-like stretch, he clambers to his feet. “Dibs on the shower.”

Numbly, Kyle stares after him. With Kenny’s whimpers echoing in his ear, he shuffles into the kitchen to put the kettle on, and thinks what it would be like to kiss him.  

-

Kenny is snoring quietly, curled around his only pillow when he slips out of the bed, settling into the rickety chair in front of his desk. His laptop whines softly as it flickers to life, the keys uncomfortably cold underneath his fingertips.    
He doesn’t stop writing until the first pink rays of 5 am creep along the cracked walls of his bedroom, and his wrists threaten to seize up with cramps.

\---

He’s already suspicious when Kenny turns up to their meeting point wearing a _navy blazer_. But it’s his insistence at visiting the freaking _Eiffel Tower_ that tips him off to his intentions, leaving him breathless and on edge in the best way possible for the entire metro journey there.   

Kenny’s voice is unusual soft, fingers clammy and cold. His skin is bright red in patches where he scrubbed too hard to get rid of the paint.

“...you’re so beautiful.” he murmurs, fingers brushing against Kyle’s cheek. He licks his lips nervously. “...you’re just...just like - “

“If you compare my eyes to some sort of fucking gemstone, I’m going to break your nose.” Kyle cuts in. His traitorous hands waste no time in grabbing onto the front of Kenny’s blazer. “And then I’m going to write a horrendously pretentious poem about it, title it your name and get it published in every magazine that I can get my hands on. Don’t try me.”

Kenny’s eyes widen before he bursts into giggles, delighted and beautiful. His mouth is still pulled into an impossibly wide smile when Kyle leans close enough to seal their lips together.

-

The rouse back into consciousness is a slow process the next morning. His body protests against any sudden movements, still recovering from being so _thoroughly_ exhausted the night before. Lips tugging into a smile, he rolls onto his side, blinking until his room comes into focus.  
His empty room.  
Save for a crumpled blanket and his abandoned clothes, he is alone.    
Content drowsiness is swept aside by a cold rush of dread. Somehow, he manages to stagger to his feet, frantically looking around for his phone. In his impending panic, he manages to miss the noises coming from the kitchen right until Kenny pokes his head out.

“Morning, babe.” he chirps. Blue eyes crinkle with mirth as he glances over Kyle’s bed-mussed form appreciatively. “I was gonna make you breakfast, but I didn’t realise you were living on _war rations._  I’m used to working with close to nothing, but _jeez."_  The neckline of his borrowed jumper slips with the movement, leaving Kenny’s shoulder exposed. He doesn’t bother fixing it. “You don’t even have _bread_.”

Kyle stops in his tracks. Drinks the other in. Stares at the obnoxiously dark mark decorating Kenny’s collarbone.  
And then he _pounces._

Ten minutes later, Kenny manages to drag enough air into his lungs to speak a full sentence. “I think McDonald’s might deliver in like, half an hour.”

Somewhere from the vicinity of his waist, Kyle purrs against his skin, hands skimming over cotton-covered thighs. “Good.”

\---

There are still days filled with frustration and fifteen words to show for eight hours. But there are sleepless nights and early mornings, and coffee runs where he leaves clutching three napkins, soaked in leaky ink and eager words.  
There’s an itch under his skin, eager and curious, buzzing with energy every time he steps outside the house, ready to take in the world.  

All great stories, after all, begin small.

\---

“We should go to Disneyland.”

Kenny’s eyes remain fixed on his sketchbook, even when Kyle lifts his head. He twirls his pencil, tip nowhere near the paper.

“Little bit of an expensive venture to excuse as an artistic excursion, don’t you think?” the redhead says, tone light.

“...Not as an artistic excursion.”

-

The photos taken in front of the castle turn out just as ridiculous as he hoped they would. The stickers Kenny insisted on pressing along the sides are obnoxiously bright and leave his fingertips gritty with glitter.   
Kyle spends two days hunting for the perfect frame. They hang it in the kitchen, just above the table - in perfect line of sight for the first coffee of the day.   

(It’s his second favourite thing in the entire flat.  
The first is the smile that curls around Kenny’s lips whenever he spots it.)

\---  

 

AN:

Back in 2013, I visited Paris for the first time. I was an illustration student, and like most people, had certain expectations. My parents had visited it for their honeymoon, and my mom always spoke very fondly of her memories of a Paris a good 20 years ago.  
It was a massive disillusionment, as far as my expectations went. Yet somehow, I remember the trip very fondly, and ended up having a really good time. Even if Paris wasn’t the city drenched in romance and breathtaking history, the museums were still incredible, the lights at night were still beautiful, and it housed the best Japanese restaurant I had ever been to.   

This fic came about as a strange combination of nostalgia, talks with my mom about artists and their perceived lifestyles, and an unhealthy amount of Inception fanfic I’ve been binging previously. And of course, the beautiful music of Edith Piaf - both for the [title of the fic](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GKEzDfFiRBs) and [the chapter](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0feNVUwQA8U).   
I would also like to put it out there that I am not American, and have never lived in France for long periods of time either, and apologise for any gross errors on that front. 

Kenny’s side is in the works, and will hopefully be finished soon. Hope you guys enjoyed - any thoughts are super appreciated <3 If you're on Tumblr, [hit me up! ](https://lwtis.tumblr.com/) 


	2. The Painter - Milord

The ceiling is leaking again.

Kenny lingers in the doorway, eyeing the dripping damp spot on the plaster with warily. After back-to-back workshops all day, with a gruelling three-hour lecture to top it all off, the last thing he wants to do is engage in maintenance with only tea towels and duct tape on hand.  
His ceiling, completely oblivious to his wishes, continues to drip water steadily onto his bed. The window frame rattles as the storm continues to rage outside, raindrops slamming against the glass with unnecessary aggression.    
_Double-glazed windows, the ad had said_ , Kenny thinks for the millionth time as he pads into the room, defeated. Once armed, he heaves himself on top of the mattress, folding the tea towel into a neat square. _Spacious double room, fit for a couple or for individuals who like their space, it had said._ Maintaining balance on top of the lumpy mattress whilst duct-taping a checked piece of fabric to the ceiling is tricky - but somehow, he manages.    
To his right, the ancient pipes start gurgling and creaking at an alarming volume. Past his front door, loud exclamations and the tell-tale stench of weed signals the return of his neighbours and - no doubt - the start of another party. Above him, the duct tape peels off the ceiling with a sad noise, taking a large chunk of plaster along with it as the soaked tea towel tumbles down on his bed.  
With a sigh, Kenny unlocks his phone to type a message to his landlady, debating how uncomfortable it would be to sleep under his desk.

Whoever swore that Paris would be the most glamorous experience of his life was a skilled snake-oil salesman indeed.

\---

Kenny's first masterpiece had been a crayon drawing of his dad throwing a beer bottle at a group of men in suits. He had been seven, and his mother had roared with laughter upon seeing it.

“That,” she had declared, brandishing the paper above her head like some trophy, “is going on the fridge. Look at my little boy, such an artist!” A smooch to his forehead later, she had padded out to the kitchen, still chortling. “Oi, Stuart! Look at this! Kenny’s gone and really captured your good side!”

The drawing earned a prestigious and permanent spot on the fridge for several weeks (much to his surprise). Even when shopping lists and aggressive reminders flooded every available inch, overdue bills secured with cheap magnets - the drawing had remained. It probably would have remained up for longer, had it not been for the Great Summer Kitchen Fire - caused by a particularly nasty argument and a carelessly thrown glass of water over a greasy pan.  
Kenny found that he didn’t mind as much as he perhaps should. It depicted something he saw in real life often enough.  

\---

Somehow, drawing became something he kept gravitating towards throughout the years. Doodling in the margins of his notes, sketching on the backs of takeout menus during slow shifts. Observing, tracing, recording - people, places, stray thoughts and feelings. Gradually, crayons were upgraded to pencils, then exchanged for leaky biros and sharp-smelling sharpies.  
It’s an odd thing, really - something he doesn’t have to think about. A compulsion, almost - gentler yet a thousand times more insistent and intense than any previous addiction. A realm of infinite possibilities and impossibilities, where despite the laws and foundations laid down by history and anatomy, there really were no rules he couldn't break.

It felt a lot like being completely, undeniably free.

\---     

On the morning of his fifteenth birthday, his grinning siblings press a crumpled paper bag in his hands. Upon closer inspection, it’s filled to the brim with brushes, fine-liners, a tiny case of pastels. A shiny brass tin hiding dozens of tiny watercolours, each in their own little plastic container. Tucked underneath it all was a chunky, hardcover sketchbook.  

“I raided the Lost and Found for most of this, calm down.” Kevin offers when Kenny shoots him an alarmed look, perfectly aware of the cost of art supplies. Despite the dark smudges under his eyes, his smile is impossibly wide. “Just accept it.”   

A transparent lie, delivered with barely any conviction. Despite the bubbling guilt in the pit of his stomach, Kenny finds his grip tightening on the bag.

“I chose the eraser!” Karen chimes in that very moment, eyes wide and glittering with excitement. “It’s _scented!"_

And well. At that point, anything other than unadulterated joy would have been rude and unacceptable.

\---

His first successful watercolour painting is of the stray cat that lives under the car wreckage in their garden. It barely takes up a corner of a page, broken tail and mangled ear lovingly rendered through careful brushstrokes.  
The next time he sees it, it’s tucked into the plastic sleeve of Kevin’s wallet, right next to the decade-old photo booth printouts of the three of them.

\---

The interest other people take in his work is always surprising.

“Oh, _wow_.”

His friend’s voice is barely more than a hasty exhale, bewildered and _impressed_. It almost distracts from the fact that Bebe took his quick bathroom break as permission to go through his sketchbook. Idly, he wonders if she’s already flipped past the double-page spread of his...unique depiction of heaven yet.  

“Your linework is _gorgeous_.” she says as he sits back down, voice lilting in admiration.  

“Thank you.” Kenny manages. His fingers scramble for his pen in lieu of doing _something_.

“It’s so bold. Have you ever seen Jamie Hewlett’s work?”

“...I don’t...think so?”

Swiftly, Bebe tugs the pen out from his grasp. Before he can even move a muscle, her fingers are twisting his arm into the perfect position for her to scrawl the name onto his skin.

“Look it up.” she says cheerfully. Once done, she tucks the pen back between his fingers. “I think you’ll like his sketches and watercolours.”

When Bebe arrives the next day to find him sleep-deprived and sparkly-eyed, printouts scattered all over his desk, her smugness is palpable.

(It’s an unexpected addition to his relationship with the sharp-tongued blonde - certainly not the direction he expected it to take. Strange how sharing one little thing could make their friendship all the more special and intimate. And all whilst keeping their clothes on, too.)

“Try Stjepan Šejić. Or Fiona Staples.” she suggests when he mentions his growing interest in making his coloured pieces flow more smoothly. He is so enthralled in the plethora of beautiful images the name yields him that he almost misses the greatest discovery of them all.

 _“I know your_ _secret."_ Kenny whispers loudly in her direction the next day, fingers barely masking his grin. He gets a blank stare in response.

“...what?”

“They're all comic book artists!” he clarifies, delighted in the dark, immediate flush across Bebe's cheeks. “Tank Girl? Saga? Witchblade? Miss Stevens, you _absolute nerd!”_

“Goodbye!” she snaps, snatching her bag off the table and whirling around in a righteous flurry of curly hair and mortification. “See if I ever help you again!”

“Awww, but Bebe! I stayed up all night reading the arc where they have to retrieve a demon's dick and I have _opinions!”_

\---

It takes a little persuading from multiple fronts, but at sixteen, he feels confident enough to start posting his work online. Which, in turn, leads to a few realisations.  
One - the Internet is a fascinating place, and despite the unbridled insanity, he is so grateful for its existence.  
Two - people are _really_ into his art, especially the more lewd pieces (predictably).  
Third, and most important of them all - with a little perseverance and clever hustling, he can _make money_ with his lewd drawings. It’s a revelation - a recurring aching wrist is an easy price to pay for escaping weekend shifts in the local Chinese restaurant.  
A more amusing side-effect is all the moments where Kenny has to be especially creative to explain his fatigue to concerned family and friends. There are, after all, a few social situations where he cannot simply admit he was up all night trying to get his nun orgy piece inked _just_ right.  
Which honestly is a shame. He had been dying to share that this was, in fact, his third nun orgy commission this month and as good as the pay was, he was beginning to entertain concerns for his commissioner.

\---

The most common question he gets asked is always along the lines of “Aren’t you scared about people finding out you draw so many naked girls?”

And to that, Kenny always raises an eyebrow and cranks up the sleaze of his smile as he replies (quite truthfully): “I’m  _really_ good at drawing boobs, my dude. Why would I be embarrassed about that?”

Or sometimes: “I mean, I’d want people to know I draw a lot of naked guys, too. I’m very passionate about equal opportunity.”

It’s not a lie, per se. Just not the whole truth.  
There’s little shame in drawings that embrace enthusiasm for the human form and the deliciously diverse forms of lust and attraction. It’s the prospect - the possibility of revealing his other - his personal - pieces to more eyes that fills him with trepidation.

\---

A sharp shout cuts through the diner, the air musty with cinnamon and drawn-out yawns of the tired and the hungover. Right on schedule, the bell above the door rings merrily.   
Tucked away in his corner booth, Kenny is so absorbed in his work that he completely misses the heavy footsteps right until their owner's shadow falls over the paper.

“That’s some remarkable work there, son.”

Pencil skidding to the edge of his sketchbook, Kenny’s startled gaze is met with a pleasant-looking man clad in a cheerful grey tweed. The hat on his head wobbles precariously as he leans to take a better look.

“Thank you.” he says carefully, schooling his features into a polite grin. It’s apparently enough of an invitation for the stranger to slide into the seat opposite him.  

“You’ve got some real talent.” he says, fingers plucking a pair of glasses from his jacket pocket. “By any chance, have you considered applying for any art schools?”  

Underneath the table, Kenny’s nails dig into his knee. In the distance, miles away, someone trips and sends their drink flying across the counter.

“I’ve...considered it.” In the stupid, insomniac hours of twilight. Quietly, briefly, silently.

Eyes brightening, the man reaches to tug a card free from his bag. “I don’t suppose you’ve heard of our little institution?”

It takes a significant amount of effort to keep his jaw from falling. The symbol on the card is very familiar indeed, proudly spelling the name of the school whose website he might have already spent a little too much time browsing. He is intimately familiar with the stunning campus, the wide range of courses and facilities, the international placement possibilities, the fucking _pool_.  
And the prices.

“I don’t think that sort of tuition fee is something I can afford, sir.” he replies, each word physically painful to say. The kind man’s expression, however, doesn’t even flicker.

“If you apply for a scholarship, that ain’t something you’ll have to worry about.”

\---

Two days later, Karen finds the card.  
The following month and a half is an absolute whirlwind.

\---

The sudden privacy takes some time to get used to.

He’s grateful for his roommate - kind, quiet and a regular user of deodorant. Most importantly, his sleeping schedule is the mirror opposite of Kenny’s, granting the blonde a surprising number of afternoons alone.  
His new residence is just shy of a two hour drive door-to-door. The student dorms are cheery brick buildings that hadn’t been renovated since the founding of the establishment. When the weather turns cold, the pipes groan loudly in protest, spewing cold water before sulkily allowing a three-minute hot shower. The paint on the walls has a tendency to crumble every time someone tries to fix a poster onto it. The walls indiscriminately allow any noise to surpass them at any time of the night - be it heart-wrenching sobs, a drunken secret or moans of regrettable one-night stands.  
In a strange way, it reminds him of home.

In the very beginning, Kenny used to visit every weekend. Two semesters into his second year, Kevin has mostly succeeded in convincing him that he is under no obligation to spend all his free time running back home. Instead, his brother makes a habit of driving up on odd-numbered weekends, Karen strapped in the back seat and stereo loaded with horrendously outdated tunes. Sometimes, he even accepts Kenny’s offers at gas money.  
It’s different. Odd. Difficult. But there’s a permanent paint stain under his fingernails these days, he knows more about early Renaissance culture than he will ever need to and it’s never been easier to breathe.    

-

It rains on the Thursday.  
Kenny grabs his blanket, weaving a complicated cocoon around himself before taking a seat at his desk. When he manages to breathe life into his battered old laptop, there’s an email waiting for him. The subject line includes an actual emoji of the Eiffel Tower, followed by more question marks than strictly necessary. His fingers linger above the keys, throat suddenly tight.  
Like the website had promised, the opportunities for trips and placements were plentiful. They granted Kenny’s first time on a plane, his first glance at the other side of the country and all its terribly intimidating wonders. Washington DC, Los Angeles - Amsterdam, London, Barcelona. (The last time he was home, the wall of Karen’s bedroom was still covered in all the postcards.)   
And now, there was a year-long placement in Paris in the school’s sister institute, and his tutor was extremely enthusiastic in her attempts to convince him to take it. 

“It’s a little different than just another trip.” he tries to reason on the phone in the evening. On the other end of the line, his brother’s sigh is a little agitated.

“You should take it.” he says. His tone is blunt but warm, and Kenny finds himself holding his breath. “I know you want to.”

“But - “

“The world ain’t going to crumble if you do something just cuz you wanna for a change.”

“But Karen - “

“Look, I’ve got the regular shift in the garage now. Unless I accidentally kill someone, I’m gonna get longer hours. Dave knows that I’m the only in that place that can tell his ass from his elbow, he’s gonna hang onto me till the zombies are knocking on the door.” There’s a pause, punctuated by a sigh. “The system yous worked out for the bills still works great. At the end of it all, there’s still some to put into Karen’s college fund. The one that I know you’re sending most of the money you earn on your weekend jobs to, by the way.”  

Kenny lets the silence drag on, grateful that Kevin cannot see his expression.

“...We’re gonna miss you like crazy, obviously, but it ain’t like you’re going off for war. It’ll be over before you know it.”  

“A year’s a long time.” the blonde murmurs. It sounds like a weak excuse, even to himself.    

“Kenny, if you’re so damn hell-bent on breakin’ your back for family, you’ve got a whole life ahead of you to do just that. Take a damn year for yourself.”

\---

Here’s the thing about inspiration.  
It’s _weird._

\---

If he was a famous artist - an important artist, whose work hung in big city galleries, and whose collections warranted _grand opening parties_ , with art critics and a fancy review in the paper the next morning -   
They would probably describe his work as _paintings where realism mixes with abstract, emotionally evocative if not sometimes confusing. Despite the occasional tonal contradiction, the pieces are nothing but consistently thought-provoking._  
Or they would claim with absolute confidence that the whole collection was a bold statement on capitalism, with a side of obvious homosexual undertones.  
(The sheer range of opinions and feedback he receives on each of his pieces never failed to amaze him.)  
If he was a famous artist, he would get questioned - over and _over_ again - about his muses, his influences, his inspiration. In idle moments - stuck in transit, standing at a red light, in the hazy pre-dawn hours of insomnia - Kenny sometimes tries to construct an interview-worthy answer to those questions.  

Inspiration isn’t a solid concept that’s possible to narrow down into a single person or object, rendering the standard questions both useless and intriguing. There’s something beautiful - _frustrating_ \- about the ever-evolving and shifting nature of inspiration. A lake that might have inspired you throughout childhood can lose its magic after just one night gone wrong. A lover - in their stunning amalgamations of quirks and flaws - could inspire a lifetime’s worth of creation, or cut off the desire for creation entirely. Just like life, it’s fleeting, ever-changing and horrendously unreliable.  
But if he wanted to be straightforward (and avoid merciless teasing from his friends once they read the very serious interview), Kenny would answer that for him, inspiration comes from the small things. Or rather, the rather large significance of small details - the connotations that might seem mundane at first glance.

Perhaps nothing encapsulates this more than the pieces about his mother’s blue eyeshadow.

Ever since he could recall, Carol McCormick had worn one particular shade of blue eyeshadow. The _ugliest_ shade of blue, to be precise - an uncomfortable compromise between cerulean and teal, reminiscent of sticky rubber toys and knock-off Barbie dolls. It was the shade on permanent sale at the drugstore, in their continued desperation to sell through their stock - and the reason for his mother’s persistent loyalty, Kenny had come to suspect. Thus, it’s all he can do to refrain from bursting into hysterical laughter when he walks into the crafts store - and is greeted by a stack of the very same blue paint. The bright sign declares them to be ridiculously cheap.

“My fool of an assistant ordered a whole crate of the stuff.” an employee explains when Kenny asks. “It was a flash craze that barely lasted a week, and now we’re stuck with it.” His gaze is mournful, tone resigned. “No one in their right mind would buy such an ugly shade of blue.”

It takes Kenny approximately three seconds to make his decision.

“I’ll take the lot.”

-

It’s really fucking hard at first.  
Once unpacked in his room, the true hideousness of the colour is even more striking than under the soft lights of the shop. It’s much too tacky to co-ordinate, and much too stubborn to mix. Chewing on the end of his brush, Kenny stares at the paint and lets his mind wander.

He recalls creeping into his parent’s bedroom on a Saturday morning, too small to reach the top of her dresser table, but big enough to be curious. He remembers her scolds, voice carrying no heat before he was lifted up and into her lap.

“Yous gonna help Mommy get pretty?” she had asked, chin resting on top of his head. Her reflection in the cracked mirror grinned as Kenny nodded.  

He recalls the rainy nights and the rickety pillow fort in the living room, made on a whim, Karen’s giggles turning delighted as Carol spun a twisted little version of Red Riding Hood for their amusement.  
He recalls the afternoon when he admitted to his mother how he wanted nothing more than to dress up as a princess for Bebe’s Halloween Party. His eyes had been downcast, nervous fingers hidden in the pocket of his parka. He remembers his mother’s touch with intense clarity, skin dry but warm - so warm - as she reached to stroke his hair.

“What sorta princess?” she had asked, tilting her head to the side. “One of them fairytale princesses, or the jumpy ones from them videogames?”

He had woken up at the crack of dawn on the day of the party, a bundle of nerves and anticipation. Draped over the back of his chair was a cascade of cream, purple and gold - the most stunning frankenstein of a dress sewn together from the best of the supermarket bargain box.  

He recalls her screams - escalating, panicked, shrill - as police dragged her away from the house, pleading for them not to take her children away.

 _My babies!_ She had screamed, fighting the officer’s hold every step of the way. _Don’t take my babies!_

He recalls lips against his forehead, the odd cacophony of scents accompanying them. Manufactured floral scent, cigarette smoke, the sour whiff of beer, the sharp stench of narcotics. Followed by an apology, an affection, a concerned murmur.

Kenny blinks, and the room shifts back into focus. The light from his broken bulb bounces off the viscous surface of the paint. Downstairs, the TV blares with the newest Terrance & Phillip commercial.    
He leans forwards and dips his brush.

\---

Like most young people raised in a small town, Kenny held a special torch for cities. The bustling, colourful crowds, the sheer energy buzzing through the streets at any time of the year - such an amalgamation of people, of events, of potential stories. The regular public transport, the variety of shops and stock - the sheer _convenience_ of it all.  
Amongst all the cities that he has settled in for longer than a week, Paris is easily the biggest one, boasting the oldest and richest history. But somehow - much to his dismay - it’s also the coldest.    
On some days, it’s still overwhelming enough to the point of distraction. On other days, the stunning beauty of the sprawling architecture and delicate decadences dwarf in the shadow of overwhelming ugliness.

Although wrapped in melodious tones of a beautiful language, Kenny can recognise the intent behind narrowed eyes and sneered expressions, aimed towards dark-skinned youth and quiet women bundled in headscarves. It’s the same venom he grew familiar with back home. Just wearing a designer _chapeau_ instead of a trucker hat.      
His attempts to practice the language are met with raised eyebrows and impatient sighs, cutting off any struggles with a demand that he continue in English. Most of his classmates carry accomplishments Kenny was previously proud of with dismissive ease - yes, of course they’ve been to a dozen foreign countries already, of course they speak at least two languages fluently, _of course_ they are intimately familiar with the works of Monet, Gogh, Matisse. Who _wouldn’t_ be?    
There’s little inspiration to be found amongst people who wield their isolation like a finely-honed weapon.

Forty-seven days after landing in France, Kenny stands in the middle of the capital - the cultural jewel of Europe - and suddenly - feverishly - he wishes he was surrounded by the same mountains that he grew sick of staring at a decade ago. The feeling - the longing - is sharp and bone-deep, clutching his heart in a tense grip that leaves him breathless for a long moment.    
With some shock, he recognises it as homesickness.  

-

He grows weary of his own work - of the anxiety he can trace in the linework, the doubt whether his work measures up to those around him and their experience.  
He gets tired of drawing angry things.  
There is little pleasure in seeing only misery and rage lurking on the page amongst splotchy ink and smeared charcoal.

\---

He’s always been partial to Thursdays. Or Thursdays were partial to him - whichever way it worked.   
It was a Thursday when the acceptance letter had been tossed through their letterbox. A Thursday when after a year’s absence, Kevin’s beat-up truck had re-appeared in the school parking lot, with their slyly grinning brother behind the wheel. And it was a Thursday when he spotted Kyle for the first time whilst queuing for his coffee.

When recounting the story, Kenny likes to say that it was those beautiful eyes that caught his attention - narrowed, scarily intent and definitely not like any sort of gemstone whatsoever.  
In reality, it had been the terrifyingly tense line of his shoulders, hunched under the fabric of his sweater. Not unlike some cable-knit-clad Atlas - beautifully, impeccably put together, yet exuding absolute frustration.  
It takes a good ten minutes to get his coffee, the exhausted waitress taking her time ringing him up. When he leaves, the redhead is still staring at his laptop with a forlorn expression, fingers unmoving.  
He’s there the next morning too - drenched, scowling and rather distracting. Especially once he starts _staring_.  
Not that he minds the slightest. Except, his tutor choses this exact moment to finally email him back with half a dozen urgent requests.

Kenny wishes he had the eloquence to properly describe the odd energy surrounding the redheaded stranger - a spark, if you will. It lurks in the tight curl of his fingers, an annoyance away from a tightly clenched fist. It lingers in his eyes - apple green and flickering between anger and resignation.  
A spark, tentatively kept at bay - the kind that starts forest fires and sets slumbering coals ablaze once more.  
A potential conqueror, held at bay only by his own insecurities.

\---

Fate is not a concept he invests much time and stock in.  
But when he spots a very familiar figure at the steps of Les Invalides on a windy Monday morning, he cannot help but momentarily entertain the notion.

\---

Despite certain popular notions amongst his high school classmates, Kenny would classify himself as a secret romantic at heart.  

Romance, of course, is all about excitement - the passion, the impulsiveness, the beautiful burn in the pit of your stomach. It’s about treasuring memories that send electricity down your spine, the sweet warmth of anticipation for the next meeting. But underneath that all - at the heart of it - romance is about acceptance. It’s about taking the time and effort to see a person for who they really are - past circumstances and all the carefully crafted masks worn as second nature - and still accepting what lay beneath it all. Despite what lay beneath it all, even.  
(A lovely notion, really.)

At the heart of it all, romance is about consideration - of the people and the priorities that Kenny’s stubbornly held since he was ten years old. It’s not a standard that many people want to meet.

\---

From the very first moment, it had been blatantly obvious that Kyle was a writer.

Even if their first encounter hadn’t involved a cafe and a laptop, Kenny would have drawn the same conclusion within a matter of hours. The ever-present notebook is an easy giveaway, for starters - as is his keen, persistent observation of the people around them, a trait usually attributed with artists and conmen. (And Kyle’s shoes weren’t quite nice enough to start entertaining ideas him being a conman.)  
It lurked in his vocabulary, effortlessly varied and educated without being irritating. Sometimes, he took Kenny’s words - unfocused and erratic from a rambling tangent - and carefully rephrased them, prettier and far more succinct.  
(“Are you secretly preparing an interview?” Kenny had asked after the first instance, amusement barely concealed. Kyle’s answer was little more than an angry scowl and flushed cheeks, paired with a swift change of topic.)

Because it was so _obvious_ , Kenny makes a point of not asking, hiding his curiosity under polite ignorance. He doesn’t want to put the other on the spot, after all. But in turn, he keeps his sketchbooks tucked close, safely hidden away in his bag.     
Kyle breaks first.  
It only takes three days of their new-found closeness for the redhead to demand to see his drawings, any previous attempts at coyness abandoned. Seeing his jaw drop at the sight of his sketches is simultaneously the most nerve-wrecking and ego-boosting experience of his life.

He receives a neat little PDF in his inbox a few days later.

“No notebook?” he teases, unable to disguise his excitement as he taps at his screen. Kyle’s snort is loud and inelegant.

“The notebook this was born in is an illegible mess.” he says. “It was written in three different colours and I spilt coffee on it at one point.”

“For that vintage aesthetic?”

“Naturally.”

They share a smile over their drinks. Like clockwork, Kenny’s heart stutters, pathetically predictable.

“No rush.” Kyle says. His fingers move to play with the handle of his spoon, each movement speaking of repressed energy - agitation, excitement, anticipation. Kenny’s gaze traces along the curve of his fingers, and he knows he won’t be able to wait until he gets back to his flat.

-

Under duress, Kenny might admit that he had a few polite embellishments prepared, should Kyle’s works lean more towards the mediocre. Not that it would matter - there’s a thousand different shades to writing, to storytelling, and there wasn’t a single _right_ way to make art. Once seated on the bus, he opens the document.  
He almost misses his stop, and is only saved from walking into a telephone pole by a harried stranger. As stupid as it is, he cannot drag his eyes away from his screen until the very last word.

The story follows an Elf King of the Forest and the Queen of the Capitol - allies in trade but bitter rivals in everything else, their relationship defined by sharp barbs and fierce competitiveness. By a cruel twist of fate and an enemy that threatens both their kingdoms, they are forced to pretend their arguments were a cover-up for repressed feelings and boiling sexual tension all along. Naturally, as events progress and they’re forced to spend more time together, their shared childhood comes to light - alongside many, many details - _feelings_ \- previously lost in translation. The story wraps up in a neat, toe-curlingly satisfying conclusion in the middle of a ballroom, and it leaves Kenny clutching his phone tight, chest aching in the sweetest way.    
It takes _effort_ to not start bombarding Kyle with messages right away.

Later, once cocooned in bed, he tries to phrase just why he found it as enthralling as he did.  
The story wasn’t the most original, but it was fresh and creative, shaking up a well-worn trope whilst keeping the classic details that made it so enjoyable. The characters were fleshed out and delightful in different ways, their chemistry palpable and delicious. Even though they only shared a single kiss through the whole story, Kenny found himself biting his lip in sweet agitation several times, eager to give them both a good shake.    
And the language...  
He doesn’t really know why the language swept him up the way it did. In a strange way, it might be because it’s so unmistakably _Kyle’s_ \- bold, fervent, magnetic. All woven throughout the story, embedded deep inside its core.  
Like Kyle had poured a fraction of his heart into neat digital ink form, and allowed Kenny to take a peek.

-

They meet in a small Japanese restaurant the next day, hidden behind a sprawling design museum. Kyle’s fingers trace along the well-worn edges of their menu before he leans forwards.

“What did you think?”

“It was stunning.” The words are clumsy, inadequate to articulate the tightness of his chest, the shakiness he still feels in his fingers, even hours later. He has  _so much_ to say - gushing over the descriptions of the interiors and the dresses, a frankly embarrassing love confession for the Orc-Prince-Turned-Princess and half an essay’s worth of material on his love for the dynamics and pacing. Unbidden, an unexpected admission tumbles free. “It...made me miss a place I’ve never been to.”

Kyle’s eyes widen, and the uncomfortable rawness of his words hits Kenny with full force. Quickly, he reaches for his glass, smile twisting into a grin. “And it left me craving a milkshake.”

The writer's surprise crumbles into unexpected delight, all perfect teeth and crinkled eyes. Kenny can only stare - helplessly - as Kyle makes a half-hearted attempt to hide his smile in the thick wool of his scarf, tips of his ears turning pink.   

“I’m glad.”

\---

Kenny knows he has to act when he starts humming along to the dulcet tones of Edith Piaf in his kitchen, gleefully attempting (and failing) to imitate her magnificent rolling ‘r’s. She croons about a man, ferocious and beautiful enough to mistake for a king, and all he can think of is a cascade of unruly red hair.

\---

“How does this look?”

“You should change your shirt.” his dearest sister replies immediately. She leans closer to her own screen, nose scrunched up in concentration. “You look like you're going to a funeral.”

Kenny’s hands freeze, expression aghast. “It's _navy!"_

“Yeah and you never wear navy.” Karen says, eyebrow raised. In his absence, she had just gotten sassier. It was both hilarious and distressing. “It looks weird and alarming. You need to wear some colour.”

“But I want to look different than usual.” Kenny tries. He has to resist the urge to run a hand through his hair and ruin the last hour’s grooming efforts. “I want this to be _special_.”

“...You can wear the navy blazer.” she declares after much consideration. “But you still need to change your shirt.”

Whilst Kenny scrounges for a shirt that’s both colourful and clean enough, a muffled rattle of keys announces Kevin’s arrival.

“Heyah.” comes his voice, crackling with static. A moment later, he crowds into the frame next to his sister. “What are you kids up to?”

“Kenny’s taking Kyle to the Eiffel Tower to ask him out!” Karen informs him, beaming.

“About damn time.” Kevin says, mirroring her grin. He tilts his head to the side, taking in Kenny’s outfit. “Why d’ya look like you're going to a funeral?”

\---

He’s barely finished taking off his shoes when the Skype logo pops up on his screen, ringing insistently. When he accepts the call, his siblings are wearing identical Cheshire-cat grins.

“Soooooo.”

“How did the date go?”

“Did he appreciate your outfit?”

“Did you remember the speech?”

Kenny shakes his head, besotted smile widening. “I got two sentences out before he was threatening me with bodily violence. Then he kissed me.”

“Hot.” Kevin remarks drily. Next to him, Karen’s expression slips into one of concern.  

“That’s...that’s not a good thing. Is it?”

“It’s just his type.” Kevin reassures her, hand moving to ruffle her hair. “Remember the dominatrix girlfriend back when he was in high school.”

“...wait, Tammy was a dominatrix?!” Half a dozen emotions flash through Karen’s face in a span of a few seconds, starting with shock and ending with incredulity. “You told me she was a punk!”

“You were like, twelve! We weren’t ready to explain to you what her job was!”

“Oh my God.” Karen whispers, a dozen memories suddenly re-contextualised. “That explains so much.”

Clutching his phone, Kenny allows himself to fall into his bed, right on top of tangled sheets and half-folded laundry.

“Is Kyle a dominatrix?” Karen’s voice asks from the vicinity of his chest, the screen tilted at an awkward angle.

“I hope so.” Kenny murmurs, voice dreamy.

\---

“Say ‘aaah’.”

Kyle doesn’t even glance up, fingers busy scribbling notes over the margin of Kenny’s latest essay. “No.”

“Baaaabe.”

“I’m not letting you feed me your half-eaten cake, Kenny. I’m not five.”

Kenny allows himself a playful pout, his fork wobbling precariously. “What is the point of having a gorgeous, talented writer boyfriend _in Paris_ if he's not going to do all the classics with you?”

Kyle does glance up at that, expression caught between confused and unimpressed. “...What classics?”

“All those things writers tend to rave about in their romance novels.” Although if Kyle’s novels were anything to go by, he would have preferred a tantalising verbal spar, followed by sweet words and thoughtful gifts.  

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Kenny - you get the full writer treatment.” Kyle taps his pen on the table, lips twisting in an attempt to withhold a smile. “The two day radio silence, the mountains of unwashed dishes - “

“Mugs _everywhere_ \- “

“At least the mugs that _I_ leave behind are not complicit in unwanted coffee Russian Roulette - “

“Stay on topic, babe.”

His boyfriend rolls his eyes, but resumes his previous train of thought. “You also get the completely _fucked_ sleep schedule, the whole sunken eyes and pasty complexion that screams ‘I haven’t been outside in _weeks_ \- “

“Huh. You’re completely right. I’d like to submit a complaint about false advertising.”

“Well it’s not like dating an artist lives up to its glamorous reputation either.” Kyle snipes back, eyebrows curling into the murderous arch that leaves Kenny’s knees weak. “No one said anything about the permanently stained shirts, the sacrifice of every small bowl to soak brushes in, the all-encompassing smell of turpentine - “

“Don’t forget the regular yet unpredictable bouts of insomnia and constant state of existential crises.”

Sometime around Kyle’s first list, he had abandoned his pen. Kenny’s hand was quick to reach over and fill the sudden void between his fingers.  

“You know, if you’re speaking of ‘classic’ artist tropes, Mister Painter…” the redhead says, unprompted. His thumb traces over Kenny’s knuckles lightly. “I’m actually pretty surprised you haven’t bought up one particular one yet.”

To the writer’s credit, he meets the blonde’s gaze, unwavering, his smile sly and teasing. Only his flush - splattered across his cheeks and along his nose - betray his fluster at bringing up the artistic practice that Titanic has made into a terrible cliche. It’s all Kenny can do not to swoon right off his chair.

“We-eeeell. Your birthday _is_ just around the corner, after all - ”

\---

By some capricious twist of fate, Kyle’s ceiling never leaks, no matter how intense the storms get. Instead, a complex spider-web of cracks encompass the off-white plaster, snaking down all the way to the floor. It gives his apartment the charming atmosphere of a post-war building on the verge of collapse.  
It does little for Kyle’s general mood, Kenny can tell. The thought burrows itself under his skin, until he finds himself carrying it everywhere - niggling and bothersome.    
He doesn’t have money for proper canvas, not at that size, and there’s only so much abandoned material in the university studios you can claim as your own. When Kyle opens his door two weeks later to find him clutching a rolled-up sheet of discount canvas paper, he can somehow manage a sheepish grin.

“Hello.” his boyfriend says, confusion battling with amusement. He eyes the object in his hands. “Did you get your assignment back after all?”

“Yeah. No - uh - it’s for you.”

He practically thrusts it at Kyle. Slowly, the redhead picks at the tape holding it together before unrolling it.

And he stares.

He continues to stare for the next minute, jaw loose and expression unreadable. When Kenny shifts, Kyle whips that gaze straight onto him.  

“For the cracked wall.” the blonde explains lamely, resisting the urge to squirm under the scrutiny. “I. Uh, I bought some tape. If you - if you like it.”

Kyle blinks. Slowly, he turns to set the painting down on the table, delicate and precise.  
Then he grabs onto Kenny’s jacket with both hands and hauls him inside, slamming the door closed behind him.

-

The piece spans the entire width of the wall. When the rays of the setting sun slip in through the window, they light the colours of the painted orange sunset aflame.

\---

When he rouses into consciousness on a Saturday morning, he is alone.  
Waking up by your lonesome on rainy days when you have no places to be and no obligations to fulfil should be classified as a crime. Kyle is well-aware of Kenny’s rather passionate stand on this topic, which makes the situation even more heinous.    
With a grumble, Kenny rolls out of bed - _Kyle’s bed_ \- and finds his slippers. He feels completely justified in stealing the redhead’s hoodie before padding out to the spare room they’ve graciously dubbed as the living room. The culprit is sitting by the table, hunched over the laptop in a very familiar manner. Without much thought, Kenny proceeds to drape himself along his back, arms winding around his neck.

“You left me.” he declares, just a little petulantly. Nose pressed into the other’s hair, he shifts to nose at the other’s neck. “Come back immediately.”   

There’s a choked laugh from the direction of the laptop. All at once, Kenny is suddenly awake.  
Slowly, cautiously, he pulls back to peer at the screen. From a maximised Skype screen, a very amused looking stranger stares back at him, big blue eyes and messy black hair. There’s a letterman jacket draped over the back of his chair, and the clock behind him declares the local time to be much too early in the morning. Underneath him, Kyle’s shoulders stay perfectly lax as he tilts his head back to catch his eye.  

“Hey.” he murmurs, lips twitching with badly concealed fondness. It’s a familiar smile - the one reserved for quiet mornings and early starts, for Kenny’s bedhead and the long, hazy minutes spent travelling between drowsiness and consciousness. “There’s coffee in the kitchen.”

“You’re a blessing.” Kenny replies, keeping his tone light. He nods at the screen, because his mother didn’t raise him to be impolite in awkward situations. “And you would be - ?”

“An insomniac.” the stranger replies. Kyle scoffs.  

“This is my best friend, Stan. Stan, this is Kenny.”

The name prompts a dozen images, from dozens of photos and scattered conversations. Kenny suddenly wishes he would have at least washed his face before seeking the other out. “Hey! I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt - “

“Oh, not at all.” Stan interrupts, He leans forwards with a gleeful smile. “I’ve been wanting to catch you for _ages_ , but Kyle’s still in the secretive, possessive stage.”

The redhead twitches. On impulse, he tightens his embrace. “Oh?”

“He’s a gossip.” Kyle says, sounding rather put out. His fingers shift to rest on top of Kenny’s. Stan just shrugs.

“When I’ve known you as long I have, you get an arsenal of good stories.”  

“Such an ungrateful dick.” Kyle scoffs. Somehow, the insult comes across warm. “See if I stay kind and discreet when Butters asks me about your high school days again.”

“He was there the whole time.” Stan reminds him with a gleeful grin. Encouraged, Kenny rests his chin on top of Kyle’s head, happy to listen to the two of them pick up their previous conversation. Inevitably, the topics shift to the misadventures of their shared youth.

“All lies.” Kyle insists once Stan’s story reaches its ridiculous conclusion. Kenny can barely hear him, too preoccupied with trying to catch his breath.

“I couldn’t make this shit up if I tried, man.”  

Wiping at his eyes, Kenny leans closer to the screen. “...I don’t suppose you have any pictorial evidence to back all of this up, would you…?”

“Oh, _loads_. Do you want pre or post braces era, ‘cuz - “

“Goodbye, Stanley!” Kyle grinds out abruptly, hand already braced over the top of his laptop. “Go walk your dog!”

-

Somehow, three pictures land in his inbox before the day is over. They’re all of Kyle and Stan, at ages five, ten and twelve respectively. Tiny Kyle had a perchance for giant green hats, and despised cameras with a passion. His scowls are near-identical to his current self’s, and Kenny is _compromised.  
_As he listens to Kyle shout at his best friend down the phone, he decides he rather likes Stan.

-

“So.” Kyle begins at breakfast three days later, promptly stealing the last piece of toast. “You’ll never guess who added me on Facebook last night.”

“That really nice publisher lady from the event?”

“Better, actually. A certain Miss Stevens?”

_"Fuck.”_

\---

“Only you would think a fire alarm in the middle of a first date was a good thing, Bebe.”

His friend shrugs, eyes fixed on her nails still. “It got a very expensive coat draped over me, and some really nice cuddling for warmth until the firemen arrived. Who were, by the way, _stunning_.” Even through the fuzzy feed, her smile is sharp and wicked.

“Never change.” Kenny implores.  

“No chance of that. How about yourself? How’s Kyle doing?”

“Little stressed. His latest chapter’s been giving him a lot of trouble.”

“Oh, really? What is he working on?”

“I don’t know.”

Bebe whips her head up in a flurry of curls, brows tugged into a frown. Kenny can only shrug. “Kyle doesn’t like people seeing or reading his work before it’s finished. Which means finalised, edited and tweaked until he hates every word, as well as his general surroundings. At that point, he’s usually running on about four hours’ sleep.”

“That...does not sound like fun.”

“Trust me, it’s much better than when he’s not writing at all.”

-

He is all too familiar with the churning dregs of a block - of being dissatisfied and unhappy with your work. He knows the frustration of looking over a piece you’ve been staring at for days - weeks, months - knowing there is  _something wrong with it_ that _needs to be fixed_ but not having the slightest idea _how_.

“Well, your work process is pretty.” Kyle had grumbled as Kenny set up on the floor by his desk the next Tuesday, rubbing a hand over his cheek. His hair is in complete disarray, and there’s a rapidly drying coffee stain on his pale purple sweater. It’s a look Kenny privately dubs _‘impending caffeine poisoning couture’_. “Nobody would think _this_ is pretty.”

Straightening his spine, Kenny casts his eye over the table - with its dog-eared notebook (colour coded and highlighted beyond recognition), the well-loved artbook on loan from the library, the faithful laptop with the outline document open. If he squinted, he could see the little smiley face at the far left corner of his browser, indicating the number of tabs have surpassed one hundred.

Biting his lip, he pushes himself to his feet. “Can I…?”

“Go ahead. I can't even see words anymore.” Kyle grunts. With what looks like gargantuan effort, he stands up. “I'm going to make a coffee. Want one?”

“I’m good, thanks. That's your third cup for the day though.” Kenny reminds him, sliding into Kyle's seat the moment it's vacated.

The piece, despite its chaotic status, is great. It’s another fantasy setting, with a slightly more sombre tone. Much to Kenny’s delight, the role of the protagonist belongs to another princess - smart, sharp-tongued and absolutely done with the world.  
Kyle’s struggles become evident once the heroine enters another dimension - a dream-like world where the people surrounding her wear similar faces, but play very different roles. There are drafts for a few different directions and tones - funny, tense, potentially disturbing. Evidently, none were good enough for the author’s liking. In some places, there are three different versions of the same sentence underneath each other, awaiting the editing’s final decision.  Kyle’s notes are written in bright blue, alternating between detailed sentences and short, instant-message like reminders.  One simply notes the princess screaming _“Fuck you Freud!”_ before jumping out of the window.  
Kenny is still cackling when Kyle returns to the room, cradling a mug and looking a little calmer. He leans against the doorframe to take a long sip.

“For a supposed muse, you're doing a very lukewarm job.”

“...A what now?”

“Stan seems convinced that you’re something like a muse.” Kyle says, mouth twisting. “Apparently since we’ve started seeing each other, I’ve fallen back into my chronic habits of regular writing.”

His tone is deceptively light, expression a little guarded. Kenny considers his words, fingers tracing along the worn keyboard.

“He makes it sound so straightforward.” he says eventually. Unbidden, his lips quirk into a wry sort of smile. “Must be nice, being able to think of it like that.”

Something in the other’s posture loosens at that. Wordlessly, Kyle raises the mug to his lips once more and Kenny would bet a pretty coin that he’s hiding a smile behind the chipped porcelain.  

“Is there a poem in my eyes, Kyle?” he says aloud, teasing. He leans back in his chair, fluttering his eyelashes. “A sonnet in the smile? A dirty limerick in the line of abandoned clothes leading to the bedroom?”

“There will be a dirty something if you don’t pick up after yourself.” comes the reply, flat and unamused. The mug finds purchase on top of his notebook. “Don’t you have a deadline you need to paint for?”

“Oh, I can finish four paintings in twenty-six hours. Come on. Tell me why the princess is suddenly jumping out of towers.”

\---

Here’s the thing about inspiration.  
It’s unreliable and capricious in nature - but simultaneously, it can be the most simple, straightforward little thing in the world.

\---

There’s plenty inspiration to be found in beauty. And Kyle - for the lack of better, more eloquent words, Kyle is _stunning._

It twists through him when they curl together in the afternoon sun, Kyle’s back warm and solid against his skull. It lingers in every mug of coffee left for him on the counter, too hot to sip and just a little too bitter. It thrums under his skin, practically a voiceless song, when he disentangles himself from the warm embrace of the bed and its gorgeous redheaded owner, slipping outside to grab them breakfast. High above him, the night sky bleeds into morning, and Kenny is already committing the colours to memory, palms itching with the urge to commit them to canvas as soon as possible.  
It pulses strong whenever Kenny bears witness to Kyle’s struggle through creation, shoulders tense and fingers clenched into fists. Despite carrying a thousand demons inside his head and a dozen more in his heart, he never falters - as if failure wasn’t an option at all.

His alarm chirps with a warning to start on the assignment he’d been putting off all week. In the living room, the jazz playlist dwindles to an end, switching over to the familiar brassy sounds of their favourite french singer.    
Just for a moment, he lets his mind wander. To last night’s conversation, and the one before. To Kyle’s apparent distress as he cycled through potential gift options his siblings would _really_ like. To the tickets resting on top of Kyle’s printer, dates set in sharp black ink. To the contract on his own flat, the forms for an extension still empty and hidden in the bottom of his drawers.

Warmth curling against his sternum, he allows his grin to stretch stupidly-wide before he reaches for his laptop.    
One small step at a time.

\---

Lips press against his jaw - slow, sweet - lingering over near-faded bitemarks. With a squirm, Kyle wriggles further into his lap, prompting the blonde to wind an arm tight around his waist. He’s dressed in nothing but boxers and Kenny’s old sweatshirt, hair still damp from the shower. He’s warm - so warm - and Kenny is desperately trying not to sink against him and fall asleep. Just as his hands creep to the small of Kyle’s back, his boyfriend pulls back abruptly.

“You are stupidly hot and I _really_ missed this but I only slept two hours last night and I’m about to pass out.” he says, words rushing out in a single shaky breath. “Would you be really pissed off if we did this in the morning?”

It’s the perfect opening for a joke, really. It speaks volumes on how exhausted he is that his reply is a shaky “Oh _thank God_.”

As he reaches to switch the light off, he cannot resist a nibble at the other’s ear, so conveniently within reach. “I expect to be very thoroughly wrecked before 10 am tomorrow. And then I want a bagel in bed.”

Kyle only snores in response, already dead to the world.

\---

“I think I get it now.”

A particularly brave pigeon hobbles closer to his boot, voice low and hopeful. A gentle gust of wind ruffles through the canopy above them, the rustling lost to the sounds of the nearby tourist crowd. Next to him, Kyle closes the card collecting app with a scoff of disgust. No doubt another PVP session gone terribly wrong.

“Get what?”

“The hype. The advertising. The century’s worth of films and love songs.” Kenny carefully wiggles his foot, smiling when the motion doesn’t deter the pigeon in the slightest. “There's something about Paris that makes it easy to be in love.”

As if hearing his admission of defeat, the clouds part above them, granting them the first real sunshine of the day. Somewhere in the distance, the sound of church bells soar above the bustle of the traffic.

When he drags his gaze back down, Kyle's smile is soft and breathtakingly tender.

“I think that something might just be you.”

\---

 

 

 

AN:

...I didn’t expect for this to grow this big when I started writing it, I swear. Apparently I just really,  _really_ like writing about the artistic process. 

Thank you very, very much for all the incredibly lovely comments on the previous chapter, they were much too kind <3 And special thank you to all the lovely writers in the Discord group, for their cheerleading, advice and support! You guys rock <3

Chapter title comes from the [Edith Piaf song of the same title](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CRVvLLNN5wM&list=PLr0rPlnrBrm5Lyjhu9b9X4qP-UgA2VOLI). Carol’s blue eyeshadow was inspired by [epileptic-gourami’s stunning piece of artwork](https://epileptic-gourami.tumblr.com/post/176169170539). There are some teeny-tiny shoutouts in this to [townycod’s](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Townycod13/pseuds/Townycod13)  [Reversal](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15791550) and [panaceaa’s](https://archiveofourown.org/users/panaceaa/pseuds/panaceaa) [Landscapes Painted In Orange](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15309393/chapters/35518500) because they are both stunning pieces of work that still make me smile. If you haven’t read them yet, I highly recommend it.    
I also highly recommend checking out the artists mentioned - [Hewlett](https://www.instagram.com/hewll/?hl=en), [Staples](http://fionastaples.tumblr.com/tagged/fiona-staples) and [Šejić](https://www.deviantart.com/nebezial) are all incredibly talented people with wicked good senses of humour. The Witchblade plot point is completely legit and I love it so much. 

  
Any thoughts are super appreciated <3 If you're on Tumblr, [ hit me up! ](https://lwtis.tumblr.com/) 


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